Short Story – Cyberpunk3

A short flash of sparks dispersed in erratic directions as he flicked the cigarette in his hand shaking it free of any ash. The room is still and quiet, lit only by a dark blue light emanating from the window where he stood. Many times he has done this, staring out over the neon city lights. Maybe he’s just dreaming, or wishing, wishing he could be free from whatever past he had and just fly away, to somewhere where he belongs.

A loud buzz from the intercom at the door shatters the quietness in the room. He pauses and still stares out the window, another buzz. Realizing that whoever is there will not go away, he slowly makes his way to the door. He presses the receive button, the display lights up and he squints his eyes so they could adjust to see the image. No one was there, only an eerie voice starting into a sentence, "John Drakes is dead". There was a loud click from the audio being turned off, then the display flickered and turned off with a dull hum.

A hallway, narrow and long, would probably remind you of one of those cheap hotels you stay in while traveling. Dimly lit with lights that hang overhead pointing in only one direction, straight down, creating almost a spotlight effect. Each light one after another, repetitive, just like the rest of the hallway with its symmetrical doors.

A click from one of the many doors on the right. The door opens with a grinding creak, as if it’s ready to fall off its hinges. A man walks out backwards while closing the door behind him. He pats around his black trench coat searching amongst its many pockets, for his keys, until with a faint gesture of realization, he remembers he left them in the back pocket of his pants. After locking, and checking that it was locked with a few jiggles he picks up a black sports bag that he brought out with him. He makes his way down the hallway, briefly lit whenever passing through one of the overhead lights. A faint buzzing, the image becomes distorted; it becomes hard to remember.

An invigorating smell, a smell that you would breathe in heavily and breath out with a sigh of relief, and for a moment everything feels all right. A café, where the barflies come to sober up after sleeping in the streets. A clock over on the counter, casted to the counter by the base reads 2:00am. The café is quiet, in the back two people discuss things that even the most uninteresting person would find bland. They sit over by the window that has a view out onto the dimly lit streets, neon signs and holo images flickering their useless advertisements and meanings. The manager of the café is at work somewhat behind the counter cleaning a mug with a towel, probably would have made a better bar tender. While almost subconsciously cleaning the mug, his eyes were locked on the man just across the room in the black trench coat, and his black sports bag. The manager began "Awful late for a man like yourself to be up and around." He pauses, "Mostly only get deck surfers in here trying to use out ports, or just some crummy guy trying to rob the place around this time." The manager pats a shotgun that he obviously has behind the counter, silently challenging the man in the coat across the room. He looks up from his coffee with his implanted spectacles setback in the sockets of his forehead, he adjusts his head so the manager could see his reflection in them. The man smacks his lips slightly in a sarcastic manner, almost telling the manager to piss off. He turns his head back down to his coffee, takes the last sip, and sets it down on the table next to an ashtray full of dirty butts. Then the burning, not the café, just burning. The burning hurts.

I watched the lights change on the elevator panel as it reached each floor. 23, 24, 25, ding! 26. I grabbed my black sports bag as I stepped out of the elevator. My equipment rattled around in my bag when I picked it up. The floor had no lighting; it was unfinished, still under construction. A completely open floor, perfect for this job. Plastic sheets rattled around in places where they had been draped. I looked up; the girders that would soon support walls extended upwards, pointing at certain starts. It was starting to rain, I could hear the drops hitting the plastic sheets, better move fast, the contracted target would be arriving soon.

I started setting up on a ledge of the northern face of the building, a direct view of the armory building, right where the target should be in ten minuets. I’m not too sure of the specifics of the situation, some big official was supposed to sign an arms treaty for a small war overseas, and my employer just happens to make a profit by selling guns for that particular war. I hate working for the bad guy, but I don’t have an opinion, it’s my job.

Once I had my rifle setup I snapped on the silencer and sighting, adjusted each for accuracy and wind turbulence. The rain was beginning to soak through my coat now. I was just in time; the target had just shown up.

The heavy rain started to obscure my view of the target, but I could still see him clearly enough. He pulled up in one of those expensive Japanese imports, red. Now comes the part that requires less thinking and more accuracy. He steps out of the car, in range, aim a little bit upwards and a bit to the right to accommodate wind and rain. Keep aims; move with the target, everything slows, he blinks. I take a breath and pull the trigger. The girder and floor shake underneath me, my shoulder feels like it’s just been broken, or just dislocated. The target turns around slowly, half of his head missing now, most of it either on the car or on the building wall behind him. His guards still haven’t realized what’s happened yet. I pull the rifle apart and threw it in the bag. I was about to run, but I freeze, a low humming noise, a lingering shadow on the street below. I just made a big mistake. A cloaked mech was tailing the car for security.

De-cloaking, masses of particles tear apart from one another revealing the mech. It’s big, at least a class 6, army division. I was spotted, it’s thrusters flashed, and I knew, eventually it would be on top of me. I started running, not in fear, I had an idea. I figure if I do this right I can push that thing over the ledge. It’s a good 30-foot drop to a concrete slanted ledge, that thing should crack open like an egg. I was at the ledge, a definable thud and a hum growing quieter behind me. Face to face with the mech, I misjudged poorly. It started charging like a bull, fast, very fast for something its size. There was a bunch of steel rods setup behind me in a cage kind of format; I backed up into them. It charged, charged right through the cage, it went over and so did I. Spinning, wind lights flashing. I landed on my shoulder; all I remember was a loud hum in my ears.

I woke up to the sound of mechanical winding sounds; they seemed to be getting slower, as if whatever was admitting the sound was dying. I looked up; I was staring down the barrel of a gun. The driver of the mech had struggled out of the cockpit, dazed, a long stream of scarlet blood running down the middle of his face. He was just sitting there, pointing the gun at me, moving slightly from side to side on the verge of dying. I was being urged, nudged by the hidden gun in the sleeve of my coat. I could kill him so easily and save myself, but for some odd reason I stalled. I paused. I used to think that anyone I killed did something to bring me to do that, it’s not true. I used to think that nothing ever dies, it just changes, and doing my job just helped people reach what they would have become anyway. I don’t know if that’s true. Stealthily I flipped up my arm, and in a flash it was over. For once I knew what it felt like to regret. He fell sideways, didn’t even have a chance to close his eyes. The rain was coming down more heavily now. Water rushing down on the concrete slant. I noticed a small trickle of red washing through the water. I guess it was a draw. I lay back, staring into the sky, watching the rain come down, feeling it hit my face. Old memories coming back to me, when I was a child, I used to listen to old radio tunes, I could hear them now, gradually getting louder. I liked this. A door in front of me, it felt like I was burning now. I pressed the message button on the intercom for the door, and when someone answered, I could only utter one sentence.

He stared out the window over the neon landscape. His thoughts interrupted by the beeping of the intercom behind him by the door. He walked over, turned it on, only to have one phrase uttered, "John Drakes is dead". He doesn’t know what to make of it. The display flickers, and the room goes dark.

By Jared Smith/BoNSe